One Day
by evermineeverthineeverours
Summary: May you live a thousand years, and I, a thousand less one day; that I might never know the world without you.
1. Chapter 1

The details.

The details in life were easy to overlook and take for granted. As a child, Olivia always attempted to discredit Santa Claus. Christmas was wonderful and delightful. Truthfully, it had and always would be her favorite holiday. She had always enjoyed attempting to catch Santa in the act. Every year, she would mask grand plans to catch him. Every year, she would fail but there would always be another clue to spurn her quest on for another year. She never wavered from it. Despite her age, Olivia realized that it was small things in life, the details, which made it meaningful. When she was alone for Christmas, she could still dig out all the "mystery clues" and remember joyful moments with her family. While her family was dispersed throughout the country, the "clues" made her feel closer to her family. Sometimes, she needed a break from her cold and harsh world to remember there were warmer things in life. It was the details that made life heartwarming and important.

Olivia rarely forgot about significant details. She fixed other people's problems but rarely found that she could solve her own. Then again, she rarely placed herself in situations that would result in a problem. At least, she had originally adopted this philosophy. Despite her controlling personality, she found that her personal life was beyond control. She disregarded the details from her rational. She fell in love with a married man and ignored his political status. While she knew that his marriage was a farce, Olivia overlooked how dangerous their liaison was. Perhaps, it wasn't that she disregarded the fact but that she simply couldn't care. Her pull to him was too strong. The details of the situation had changed. The details were no longer that he was married or running for president. Those were details of her job and details she easily handled. They were almost so engrained that she forgot them. The greater details were that she was in love, feelings that she had never truly experienced until she met him. At least, if she had, they were a whisper compared to the sound her heart made when he entered a room.

Therefore, it was easy to manipulate the details. It was harder to resist falling into the fantasy they created. While Olivia was willful and unwavering, she never dreamed of becoming a 'storybook princess' and somehow he made her feel just thus. She hadn't ever expected much from their affair. She knew what it was and expected nothing more than a few hotel trysts. Olivia never dared to dream. Fitz was her opposite and she supposed that's why he was the politician. He had challenged her to dream. He had pushed and shoved until she dare think of any thing other than 'what if.' She had resisted because 'what if' was unrealistic and Olivia was a rational person. Her affair with Fitz may have been her only true irrational act ever committed. Still, he managed to push her boundaries and she respected him for it. It was something that no other man had the courage to do. He always defied, always tried, and never stopped until she laughed or shoved him away. His provocation made her feel alive.

Eventually, she relented.

The fantasy became pronounced. The fantasy became a want, need, and desperation for something more. She was relieved with the notion that _one day_ they would be together without restrictions or concealments. As much as she loved him, Olivia hated him for planting that within her. She had been perfectly fine with understanding the reality of their situation. They were lovers, carrying on an affair, which would eventually come to an end. He clouded her judgment and fed her a life that they could never fulfill. A life that she craved more than each breath she took. She had never felt so strongly, but weak as well. She was too weak to refuse him anything. She was susceptible to his charm and wit. Thankfully, Olivia knew that she wielded similar power over him. Presumably the happiest evening of his life, reality set in for each quickly. He couldn't be president and keep a mistress. Despite unspoken words, broken hearts, and yearnings, they were all for another lifetime.

Today, Olivia was far too busy to worry about President Grant. Plus, he had let her go. She attempted to reason it was for the best. It was what she wanted. There was a part of her that agreed with this sentiment. It was politically best. Nothing good would ever come from their affair. Eventually, they wouldn't be able to hide the lies and both their careers would be irrevocably ruined. Neither could risk that. Her credibility was all that she had. The last thing she needed was to be portrayed as the president's mistress.

Running a hand through her hair, she took a deep breath and sighed. The bitter November breeze was welcoming. Her eyes were transfixed on a large autumn tree. Its leaves were deep fiery shades of red, gold, and bronze; the mourning limbs slumped with each passing whip of wind. As the leaves blew by her feet, she twisted her heels in a few, spiking them with her thick pump and enjoying the distinct crunch beneath her leather boot. It was going to be a long day and the sun had barely crept into the sky. This had become her morning ritual. When her phone wasn't alerting her of a new case. When she had managed to sleep longer than three hours, because she wasn't expectantly staring at the phone and awaiting his call, she sat here. To the passerby's she was no one. She was just a quiet woman who usually dropped a twenty and sandwich to the homeless person sitting in front of a monument. She didn't retain a grand title and no one knew her heart yearned for the most powerful man in the western hemisphere.

Twiddling with the zipper of her coat, she closed her eyes and relaxed. Her hand absently rested against her abdomen. It found its way there more frequently. She tugged at her coat and pulled it tighter around her. Olivia found it much colder today. The distinct buzz of her phone interrupted the serenity. She shook her head, just another day at the office. Digging into her pocket, she found it quickly and tugged it out. It was Harrison and he rattled the details quickly to her. She wasn't surprised to hear another senator was in trouble. She found that senators couldn't keep their pants down, mouths shut, or hands off. She wasn't sure what it was with men of power and affairs. The thought shut down quickly, Olivia realized how hypocritical her thoughts were. If everyone knew, she would be the most famous woman who slept with a politician. She wondered who would have the wonderful job of "fixing" her predicament. Steering away, she reached her feet and clasped her phone. She marched down the Mall. The everyday homeless man sat at the feet of the Vietnam memorial. It was too early for a breakfast sandwich. Instead, she took the fifty from her pocket and handed it to him. He nodded in 'thanks' and she kept walking. She had learned not to expect more or an explanation. She knew that he would probably spend it on an extraordinary amount of alcohol. She didn't care. You did what you needed to get through the day. The choices weren't always healthy. They just had to get you through the day.

Picking up her pace, she hurried across the street. Her heavy boots grated across the concrete. Suddenly, the edge snagged atop a drainpipe and she jerked to a stop. She swore loudly and attempted to dislodge her foot. Her ankle pained as she bent down and pulled it out. She grumbled loudly, what idiot sanctioned to place this right here? It was clearly a hazard. She tugged at her boot and considered taking it off. As it wouldn't slip out, Olivia began to unzip her shoe. She was on a time constraint. Every second she wasted freeing herself from the grate, she had to worry about someone hearing of the senator's indiscretions. Sighing heavily, she grew more frustrated as she finally withdrew her shoe.

Her eyes flickered upward briefly to check for cars. The loud screeching sound made her heart squeeze painfully and bile rise. It was enviable. She was frozen in panic and fear. Her feet rooted to the ground. She ridiculously clutched the boot as if it would offer her protection. She held it high in mock triumph. What had she accomplished? The ordeal happened so quickly; Olivia hardly had time to register the panic or overwhelming sense of dread. The flying impact as the car rammed into her abdomen and sent her soaring across the road was faster than an inhalation of breath. As her lungs filled with air, she realized her wish from childhood had been fulfilled she was flying without wings. She felt no pain as her body slumped to the ground. The impact bruised and battered her limbs. The severe marks and tracks of the car embedded in her beautiful skin immediately. She released a raspy breath, chokingly coughed, and wheezed an almost silent plea, "Fitz."

The skidding sound of the tires zoomed by. Try as she might, her limbs wouldn't move. She was frozen and the bitter November air consumed her body. It blanketed her and metaphorically shoved her deeper into the ground, it was building her grave. It was subjecting her to time without question. Olivia quietly coughed. Blood trickled at the corner of her mouth and her forehead. She laid angelically still, her arms strewn apart, and body quivering from the cold.

There was so much left unsaid. There was so much that she hadn't told him which he deserved to know. He had released her from their relationship, but his hold was never stronger. They may be apart, but her heart still clung to him. As she lay on the ground, she longed to hear this voice once more. She wished to hear him say, 'I love you' just one last time. Most of all, she wished that she never let him go. It had been the greatest mistake of her lifetime. She felt no pain except for this, the pain of never knowing him again. He would never know. He deserved to know. She had been too selfish. Olivia had wanted him to be a "great president," but she never asked him, what did he want? Selfishly, she manipulated him into doing what was best for everyone. He had been manipulated his entire life. While he was a great man, husband, father, lover, politician, he could never be great in his own way. He had never been great of his own creation. Now, she desperately wished that she had allowed him to be. There truly was not a greater agony than love except having love lost. The tears pricked at her eyes and she released another shaky breath. She would die wanting.

Suddenly, a man, or messiah, stood over her and tremblingly shuffled through her pockets. His matted hair blocked the sun and she could hardly make out his face. Olivia could smell the heavy grime and layers, perhaps years, of dirt and trash on his clothing. Her nose didn't have the ability to wrinkle. The familiarity of his face registered immediately. It was the man that she donated to her every day. Somehow, she wasn't happy to see a familiar face. Timidly, he ruffled through her clothing but she wasn't afraid. She couldn't be. What more could fate subject her to? The humiliation of dying and being mugged at the same time was more hysterical than demeaning. It would be the 'Great Olivia Pope' to die in such a plebian way by Washington standards. Nonetheless, he must have heard her thoughts. Surprisingly, he reached and caressed her fingers pleasantly, "Stay with me, love."

Blinking stupidly, Olivia lay stunned and watched him intently. His fingers continued to carefully move through her clothes. She didn't have much choice but to allow him to inspect her clothes. When he blatantly skipped her wallet, she released a quiet sight of relief. She felt his hand move closer to her breast and she closed her eyes. Maybe, she could will herself into a coma or sleep. Then, he stopped and retrieved the weight beneath her ribs. The small metal object seemed almost entirely unharmed. There was a long crack on the front of the screen but it was still functioning. She watched him expectantly. He dialed the emergency number without hesitancy. Her jaw nearly fell open in shock. He was calling for help. He was helping her. Her heart beat faster. She swallowed thickly and Olivia stared in fascination. Who was he? She hadn't shown him much kindness besides slipping him some money every day. She could have offered him a place warm. Yet, she still held a resound fear that something disastrous may happen. There was still an air of caution. Yet, he never hesitated with her. She stared gratefully and heavy tears welled in her eyes.

He rattled off her injuries with a precision she rarely saw. His fingers seemed to know what to assess. He saw injuries, scrapes, and bruises that hadn't seemed to blossom yet. Suddenly, she felt his fingers unbutton her coat and lift her blooming shirt. The shirt was loose and free, it held very little definition and didn't cinch in anywhere. It resembled many of her shirts that she took to wearing. As he timidly pushed her shirt up, he was greeted with the tightly stretched band of her pants. He had expected this. He pushed her pants down her waist and heard her painful groan. He murmured an apology and frowned when he saw another tighter band. His eyes narrowed and mouthed formed an 'o' shape. Quickly, he dug into his pocket and retrieved a pocketknife. Timidly, his cool hand cut along the seam and watched as the material snapped away. The tightness of the material revealed a perfectly rounded stomach.

"And approximately six months pregnant," He finished clapping the phone shut.

"The baby," Olivia acknowledged her secret aloud for the first time.

The man dutifully nodded and squeezed her hand. He closed her coat and took off his own to cover her extended stomach. She needed nothing but warmth right now. "The baby," Olivia cried solemnly. The man shook his head and gingerly shook his head. He had no words. Her stomach was badly bruised and he had noticed the pool of blood that she lay in. He couldn't determine where it came from, but he presumed it wasn't from a surface wound. In an attempt to calm her fears, he stroked her hair and murmured Shakespeare's Sonnet 18. Squeezing his fingers, she released shuddering breaths and tears stained her cheeks. Fitz would never know. As she lay dying, the man's voice took on a richer, raspier tone and it became her beloved's, she knew _one day_ had come.

* * *

**Hello everyone, **

**I am endlessly hoping this receives the similar reception _Hummingbird _and _La Vie en Rose _has. All the readers and reviewers have been so undeniably wonderful. Thank you all so very much. Most of all, thank you all for your warm 'get well' wishes. You're all too sweet. **

**Recently, I contracted a bout of insomnia and this idea couldn't just leave my mind. So, I did some research and decided to put the - 'could Olivia hide a pregnancy from Fitz' idea to the test. The clothing band across Olivia's midsection is called, "Mama Spanx." Apparently (and if you review pictures), it does hide a pregnancy stomach very well. Also, I'm taking into account that Olivia is very petite and probably would be one of those women who hardly show. I.E. Julia Roberts who carried twins and hardly showed. I mean, how does one pull that off?! **

**Anyway, I hope that everyone enjoys it. This is going to be something totally separate from _Hummingbird_ and _La Vie en Rose_. All my best! Love you, S **


	2. Chapter 2

The beeping woke her.

Olivia had never understood why you were admitted into hospitals 'to rest.' It was nearly impossible to rest in a hospital. There was a constant sense of foreboding in a hospital. You knew that there was a chance of death. How did they expect you to be calm? If you traveled to the right floor, you would find the morgue. There was a prevalent grim sense that accompanied hospitals. Some entered and never returned. Some entered and two left the hospital. The exchange of lives was a business. Despite the grim tale, Olivia hated the beeping most. It reminded her of a bomb. It was a ticking clock that seemed to countdown your time. If the sound grew louder, pulsed, then your time was up. It was always the same. It would be kind to think that they would make sound proof doors and just hook some alarm to the nurses' station. The blaring sound could be heard from room to room. Despite not seeing Death looming over his newest patron, the sound was worse.

Her dark eyes fluttered open and there was a splitting pain behind her eyes. A soft groan of misery tore from her lips. Weakly, Olivia shifted and stole a shuddering breath. Her lungs filled with a painful burn and she sputtered a cough. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the light. As she shifted her brows, her sight seemed to strengthen and the warm neutral tones on the wall came to light. She narrowed her eyes and attempted to remember where she was. She attempted to make sense of why she was in a hospital. Her body trembled in pain and she coughed agonizingly. Relaxing back on the bed, she extended her neck and felt a sudden wooziness overtake her. Her body was light and the pain seemed to float away. Her eyes fell shut again and she sighed gratefully. She welcomed the release from her pain. Olivia wasn't sure if she was sleeping or simply detached from her body. The details were fuzzy, but whatever she was, Olivia appreciated to shut everything _off_. As she was finally able to calm, to reach a point of sincere still, her mind shot into high speed. Her thoughts raced, heart pumped, breath grew shallower, and breath hitched painfully. Her jaw quivered and she moaned, _what about her baby_?

Suddenly, as if someone had read her thoughts, a hand squeezed hers. She didn't recognize the rougher skin. Nonetheless, Olivia felt a sense of calm overtake her. The sweet gesture left allowed her worries to leave for just a moment. Surely, this stranger wouldn't let anything happen to her baby. While she had never been a particularly religious person, Olivia couldn't help but thinking this was her guardian angel. While religion had never been her 'thing,' Christmas was. Maybe, this was her Christmas miracle. Her lips twitched in recognition and a curl was tucked behind her ear. She pressed her head to the unfamiliar touch, but couldn't manage to say anything.

The pain dissipated as her eyes fluttered open for the second time. Olivia was relieved not to feel the blinding and withering pain from before. Timidly, she allowed them to open entirely. The details from earlier today were hazy. The room was neutrally decorated but it was clear where she was. The maternity ward bustled with people and she watched a heaving pregnant mother waddled by her door. Her eyes slid over to the man huddled in the chair across from her bed. His face was familiar, but Olivia couldn't picture where she knew him. Her eyes narrowed questionably and teeth sunk into her lower lip. They quickly withdrew and tongue slid over the white liquid stiches. Swallowing, she felt the scratchiness of her throat and stretched for the glass of ice. She picked it up and hesitantly took a few chips into her mouth. Sucking on the chips, Olivia watched the man stir and quietly placed the cup on the stand again.

Rubbing his eyes, he sheepishly sat up and ran a hand through his matted hair. She watched him curiously. A light hum of medication still seemed to course through her body. He cleared his throat reflexively and sat straighter in the bed. It seemed to be a test of wills. She was dying to ask who he was. Her eyes would occasionally narrow but relax again. He didn't seem eager to share any information. She was not sure how to proceed. She didn't want to bluntly ask, _who the hell are you_, but she was growing anxious. Pursing her lips, she swallowed and twisted the blanket in between her fingers. Her eyes shifted briefly to the various machines in the room. She could feel the heavy pulsing of her heart and watched the machine dial her heartbeat. It was steady and strong.

"Sir, do I know you," Olivia asked politely.

"No ma'am," He spoke freely.

His voice was rough and gentle. The dark timbre held a scratchy quality as if he had been drinking or smoking for too long. She couldn't be sure which it was. She wasn't too keen to ask. Suddenly, the realization became clear as she recognized the man's face. He was the homeless man who sat at the various monuments. Her mouth opened in recognition and she nodded despite not saying anything. She swallowed and nodded again, but no words left her lips. The morning was hazy. She remembered entering the Mall and sitting on her usual park bench. She remembered enjoying the cold and looking forward to Christmas. Then, the details broke off. Olivia took a deep breath and attempted to formulate the rest of her day. There had to be a reason how she had ended up in the hospital. They don't admit you into the hospital reason for no reason.

Was she in labor?

"Sir, do you know why I am here," She asked again curiously.

"You do not remember," He cocked his head and tsk'd, "Well, they were afraid of that."

Suddenly, it dawned on Olivia that he wasn't wearing his usual attire. Somehow, he had traded in the holey and weirdly patched heavy coat for a pair of pressed blue scrubs. She wondered what he had done with his typical clothing. Although, she suspected that he hadn't relinquished his clothing of his own account. There was a large bag by the chair that seemed to put her questioning mind to rest. As she lay in a hospital bed, she still was nagged by questions about everything and everyone. The pressed blue scrubs suited him well. The long white-sleeved shirt was tucked neatly beneath shirt. He shifted beneath her inquisitive glance and folded his hands on her lap. She cleared her throat but quickly regretted her actions. It was far too sore. Her hand reflexively drew across the skin and winced. If she had a mirror, Olivia ventured to believe there was a bruise.

"What happened to me," She asked hoarsely.

"You were in an accident, ma'am. You were crossing the street and…" He paused effectively, "A car hit you full speed. The damn bastard just kept driving. They are still looking for him." He shook his head angrily and muttered darkly beneath his breath.

There was an effectively large gap in her memory. When she closed her eyes and attempted to draw it forth, nothing came. Taking a deep breath, she tried to fill in the blanks. She just remembered sitting on the bench. She didn't even remember donating to him. It was her daily routine. Why had he even accompanied to the hospital? Who had allowed that? She didn't want to be cruel but that seemed entirely against protocol. Not to mention, what had happened to her things? Her wallet, cell phone, and clothes? The team had to be looking for her. They couldn't be witless to think that she just wouldn't show up the scene. Releasing a contemptuous breath, she met his gaze again.

"What happened to my belongings," Olivia pressed.

"Well, they confiscated a lot of it. I imagine that your clothes are in a bag similar to mine, but I wouldn't want to keep those, lass. Those pretty Vera Wang—"

Her jaw rudely dropped. He recognized designer labels, who was this guy?

"A man can't appreciate good taste," He asked bewildered, "Anyway, they are ruined, love. The car compressed much of your wallet and drove away with it on its tires. Your mobile is dead and screen cracked, but I don't think it's entirely useless."

She nodded but groaned at the sudden starling nausea that washed over her. Her head spun and ears rang. She trembled and stomach sank further. She felt the need to heave and Olivia gulped loudly, vomiting was the last thing that she wished to do. Absently, her eyes shifted and finally took in her state. She noticed the large bruises on her arms. The bright coloring had begun. Large red patches of clear blood bruises and the boisterous swelling clearly interpreted the harm. Her right arm, _lovely – her dominant hand_, was efficiently wrapped in a soft cast. Clearly, the doctors hadn't wanted to decompress her arm into something binding. She could tell from the solid splints encompassing her arms that it was only temporary. Olivia gently flexed her fingers and was grateful that there was still easy mobility. She sighed and tensed her toes as well.

_Nothing._

* * *

**Hello darlings,  
**

How are you all? I cannot thank you enough for the overwhelming support that I received from this community. All of you have been so willing to reach out and always ready to help. You guys rock! Thank you so much. The reviews have been so kind and I'm glad that you liked the first chapter. I wasn't sure how this would be received because there are quite a few "Livie has a baby" stories. If I can't set mine apart, I hope that you'll love it just as much as the greats. As always, I love to hear what you think - good and bad. All of it.

If you are lost at the end of this chapter, never fear. I'll explain everything in chapter four. If you aren't, I would love to hear your predictions of what happened or what's wrong. 3

I am very anxious about your reactions to this chapter. I was nervous about posting it especially with this ending.

Also, I'm glad that everyone loves the homeless guy. He's going to be a prominent character in this fic.

Everyone has a story, right? (;

xoxo, S


	3. Chapter 3

He should have resigned.

If he couldn't have Olivia, Fitz should have resigned on the stipulation on attending G8 summits. He had never attended a more boring meeting in his entire life. He knew the "eight largest economic countries" were supposed to come together and discuss business, but Fitz couldn't be more distracted. The entire flight over, he had only thought of her. He hadn't slept and hardly touched his favorite meal, fried chicken with macaroni and cheese. The gourmet chef on Air Force One never made it as well as Olivia did. There was always something missing and he suspected it was calories. He had been impressed with her cooking skills and horrified with the amount of butter she added into _everything_. He had asked if she had attended French culinary school with Julia Childs. She sassed back, 'No, my mother is from Georgia.' That had sealed the discussion. After tasting her fried chicken, he never questioned her methods again.

Nevertheless, Fitz adamantly believed resignation would have been best. His aide had poked him in the stomach _thrice_ to stay awake. The translator babbled and he pretended to take notes. He scribbled her name on his yellow tablet and had to continuously cross it out. He noticed his aide raising his brows. The pointed looks that Fitz shot him seemed to quell any questions poised on the tip of his tongue. He schmoozed the other presidents, prime ministers, and chancellors. Cordially, Fitz invited them all over to "his place" for dinner and regretted it immediately, they all had jets too. Grand. Fitz would have preferred discussing anything– even the economy – over a tumbler or scotch and fat (preferably Cuban, illegality be damned) cigars. Unfortunately, he didn't get his wish.

As he disembarked Marine One, he admitted that it was glad to be home. If nothing more, he wouldn't stand in the bathroom trying to figure out how to make his shit flush or turn off the weird ambiance sounds from the speaker over the toilet. He may install one in the Residence just to piss Mellie off. It would definitely make their lives more entertaining. Running a hand through his hair, he was surprised that Cyrus hadn't come to greet him. He glanced down at his watch. It was approximately evening – six thirty to be exact – Cyrus could not have returned home already. No one messaged him that Cyrus had died nor was James dead. Something wasn't right? Had they gone to war and everyone neglected to tell him? He picked up his pace and walked briskly into the building. He was greeting politely by the staff. He waved, smiled, or greeted with an equally friendly greeting.

Despite attempts to pacify or distract him with new events, he rushed through the halls and toward the Oval. Surely, he would be able to find Cyrus relaxing on the couch. If he was lucky, he may even be able to find the old sod warming his seat. He didn't think that Cyrus wanted his chair, but the old bastard liked power as

much as the next man. He made a sharp curve and ran immediately into James who carried a large bouquet of flowers. His brow creased at the enormity of the flower bouquet. They were fit were a grand wedding or… funeral. His heart sank, he had been kidding. Cyrus, his mentor and friend, couldn't really be dead. He had just spoken with him. They hadn't spoken today but they had just spoken yesterday. It had been yesterday, right? Suddenly, Fitz couldn't recall the last time that he had spoken to Cyrus. The day seemed to have run together. He had been receiving messages from the White House, but when was the last time that he had actually heard Cyrus' voice. His heart hammered in his chest and James' lowered the bouquet. He noticed the eyes heavy eyes, bruised from lack of sleep, and reddened with fresh tears. Fitz's breath hitched, why hadn't anyone called him?

"Fitz," The informality bypassed without a second thought.

"Mr. President," He quickly corrected himself.

"No, Fitz," Fitz insisted, "Is everything alright? Why didn't anyone call me? Where is Cyrus?" The questions flooded out all at once.

"At the hospital," James sniffed.

Fitz nodded stiffly, "Why didn't anyone call?"

"We—she told us not to."

He blinked stupidly, "I—who told not to? Mellie? Why would she do that—"

"Fitz," James interrupted him, perplexed, "Cyrus is fine."

Fitz released a heavy sigh of relief, "Thank god." He chuckled mirthlessly.

He paused, "Wait, who are the—"

James shot him a pointed look.

Fitz swallowed and brokenly whispered, "Is she okay?"

"It's not my place."

"Is she okay," He asked again, voice growing firmer and inflection gaining on the last word.

"Fitz," He moaned painfully, "I promised Cyrus that I'd be right back with these."

He roared, "Is she okay?"

Taking a step closer, James narrowed his eyes and hissed, "You have this impression that yelling at me will get you answers. My husband may kiss your ass, but from my understanding I am not my type, so I'm not going to waste my type." He pushed past Fitz, "Excuse me."

Sheepishly, he rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel the thick knots of stress beginning to develop. Logically, Fitz knew that Cyrus and James were just being good friends to Olivia. He had left her. He had ended things with her. He didn't have any rights to ask about her condition. Yet, he had to know. Fitz had to know if he had caused this and if he could have prevented it. He had to know if hurting her even more was his doing. It wouldn't change anything, surely torture him more, but Fitz needed to take responsibility. He had not taken responsibility of their affair, his love for her, or anything concerning them. He could start now. Swallowing, Fitz rushed after James and stood before him anxiously.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He pleaded helplessly, "I will be in your debt—"

"You already are after dinner two week's ago."

Fitz remembered. Mellie had gotten it into her head that asking for French delicacies was a good idea to impress their friends. He had only been half listening to what she said. By the time the food arrived, they were all already groaning from the tiny portions and imbalanced flavors. James had gotten up, taken everything, and somehow had managed to make the most delicious quiche he had ever tasted.

"You're right, I definitely do." He conceded, "Please, is she okay?"

"No," James answered frankly.

Spinning on his heel, he stormed away.

Fitz stood stunned.

He had often teased Cyrus that James kept him on a short leash. He never believed that James could just throw the collar and leash on anyone. His collar felt unbearably snug and he pulled at his tie. Standing in the hall, he felt uncomfortable and exposed. He was unsure how to proceed or who to even ask. His closest friend and occasional enemy had left to sit at the love of his life's bedside. It was his place and he didn't even know where she was. The gruff 'no' that James had accosted him with was worrying. What did he mean that Olivia wasn't okay? This was Olivia. Of course she was okay. He scoffed quietly to himself. Olivia never troubled herself with anything but work. She was willful and independent. She didn't deter in six-inch heels. She healed the sick, nurtured downtrodden, and was righteously selfless. She deserved the title 'Christ'.

Grasping his phone, he dialed her number and blanched when an automated message was returned. Her phone had been _disconnected_.

"Tom," Fitz roared.

He anxiously ran a hand through his hair, "I need a car."

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Scandal in any shape or form - unfortunately.

**Author's Note: **Hello, beautiful gladiators! I apologize for my extreme delay on updates. My life picked up and became very hectic. I cannot promise regular updates (weekly, as usual) but I will do my best to update twice a month. I want to dedicate this story to everyone who sent a message and asking how I was. You are all wonderful friends to have. I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. All the best, S


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